


Poetic Justice

by heyitsamorette (AmoretteHD)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Auror Ron Weasley, Blood, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 04:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14609430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmoretteHD/pseuds/heyitsamorette
Summary: Someone is finding elaborate, poetic ways to murder people who went unpunished for their crimes in the second Voldemort war.





	Poetic Justice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GingerTodgers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerTodgers/gifts).



> GingerTodgers, thank you for the awesome and inspiring prompt, I hope you enjoy the story that came out of it. I actually really ended up loving this verse and had so much fun writing it. 
> 
> A million thank yous to Nerdherderette for betaing this for me, I honestly don't know what I would have done without you! Thank you also to Hiddenhibernian and Oceaxe for all their help!

Robards banged his fist against the open door to the office. “Come on, Potter.” He heaved a sigh. 

“Another one?” Harry said, standing as soon as he saw him appear in the doorway. He tugged on his red coat which had been hanging from the back of his chair. “Already?”

Robards’ eyes were framed by dark circles, his forehead heavily lined. He looked much too old for his age, but everyone said that’s what happened when you became Head Auror. 

They Apparated to Knockturn and Robards led the way down the street. “I just want to prepare you,” he said, looking ahead as they marched. “You know this one.”

“I do?” Harry’s pulse spiked. It was never nice seeing dead bodies, and it was understandably less so when it was someone you knew. After the battle, he had hoped never to lay eyes on a corpse again. He hadn’t quite considered, before joining the Aurors, that he would have to see them rather regularly. It was kind of a symptom of the job. 

“He was in your year at Hogwarts.”

A horrible, icy wash of fear came over him, and he held his breath waiting to hear who it was.

“Theodore Nott.”

Harry exhaled, relieved, and then immediately felt guilty. Obviously, he was not glad to hear Nott’s name—he was just glad not to hear a particular other name.

“I didn’t really know him,” he said. “Don’t think I’ve ever spoken to him.” He knew next to nothing about Nott except that he’d been in Slytherin house and he’d hung around with Malfoy. 

“Well, he’s dead now. You’ve lost your chance.”

They knocked on the door of a run-down building with grey paint peeling off the outside plaster. Harry stood beside Robard as he announced them in his gruff, barking manner. “DMLE. Open up.” 

There was silence behind the door. Robards rolled his eyes and lifted his wand, doing a nonverbal unlocking spell, and the door swung open and banged against the wall inside. 

A narrow staircase with broken railings stretched out before them, and there was a sob coming from the second floor. Harry tightened his grip on his wand, holding it in striking position as they climbed. 

As they came upon the landing, he could make out sniffling in between sobs. He followed Robards into the bedroom, and though he thought he’d been prepared for it, he couldn’t help but gasp this time around. 

Maybe it was because, despite not knowing Nott well, he did in fact know him. 

Maybe it was seeing his mother crying over his body. 

Theodore was spread out on his back on the floor. 

Like everyone else, it looked like he was wearing a muddy brown mask, the blood and bare muscle having oxidized and congealed when they were exposed to air. His eyeballs stared out from their sockets, round orbs shining in the candlelight. Mrs Nott kept bringing her hand to them, her palm outstretched as though attempting to draw his eyelids shut, but of course, there were none. 

His teeth looked like they were stretched into a grotesque grin, broad and white.

Harry was never good at keeping a straight face during these things. A grimace twisted his lips, and he couldn’t untwist it. Bile began to rise and sting his throat as his stomach constricted, tight and then loose and then tight again.

Robards didn’t so much as blink. “Mrs Nott, were you the one who called us?”

Mrs Nott lifted her face towards them for the first time; her mouth remained slack for a long moment, as though she wasn’t seeing them at all. Her face was pale and bony, her black hair severely straight. Theodore had resembled her. 

“Oh,” she said, her voice croaky and weak. “You’re here.”

“Mrs Nott, are you sure you are quite well enough to make a statement? The Mediwizards will be here in a moment.”

When she failed to reply but only stared blankly up at Robards, who gave Harry a nod. Harry turned out of the room and recorded a request for Mediwizard backup into his wand, and then sent his Patronus to St Mungos. 

When they arrived, there was much more activity throughout the house as people bustled around performing various jobs. They covered the body in a white linen sheet and went about scanning each room for magical signatures. Someone wrapped Mrs Nott in a blanket and sat her on the bed, trying to prod a hot mug of tea into her hands. “Just hold it, the warmth will do you good,” said a sweet girl named Jan who had started at St Mungo’s around the same time Harry had started with the Aurors. He saw her a lot during cases, and especially now with all this. 

“I don’t want it,” Mrs Nott snapped, having finally found her voice. And it wasn’t a very pleasant one. Harry figured he could give her a pass considering the situation, but he knew how these old Purebloods were and he suspected she was usually like this.

Robards was downstairs doing forensics, and Harry had been tasked with getting her statement. He didn’t know why Robards insisted on forcing Harry to talk to people. He was too direct and too impatient, and he would much prefer to gather forensics anyway. Look for clues around the house. Document evidence. 

Harry approached Mrs Nott, nodding hello to Jan as she left, and pulled out a pad of paper and a quill. He could charm the quill to write for him, but that gave him major flashbacks of Rita Skeeter and somehow he just never took up the habit. 

“Mrs Nott,” he said, and when she saw him, her eyes widened and then narrowed in succession. He tried to keep his face impassive but he was already fighting the urge to frown. “I’m going to have to take your statement now.”

She eyed him suspiciously, as if he were trying to do her harm, as if she hadn’t called the bloody Aurors to come help her. What did she think he was going to do, tell her off about Voldemort? All the old Purebloods regarded Harry with the same air of defiant caution. 

It was rather stupid and annoying, if you asked him, and he didn’t see why he had to put up with it. He wouldn’t normally even give a fuck except for the fact that he’d been having to talk to a lot of them lately. 

“Mrs Nott?” he inquired again, tapping his quill on the notepad. 

“What kind of statement do you want?” she asked tightly. 

“Well, for starters: what happened here?”

Her thin eyebrows rose in sharp arches. “You can bloody well see what’s happened,” she said, and then brought her hand to her mouth as she let out another gasping sob. She stared past him, her eyes wide with horror and despair, and he felt bad for her again. 

“Yes, it’s just that we’re supposed to ask that. That’s what a statement is.” He had meant it as an apologetic explanation, but she evidently took it differently. 

“Don’t you condescend to me. My boy is… is….” In a whisper, she finally said, “gone.” 

Harry bit his lip. “Mrs Nott… It’s horrible what has been done to your son. Trust me when I say that I am deeply sorry, and that we are very committed to catching whoever’s behind this.”

His words seemed to thaw her a bit, and she lowered her eyes as her face fell entirely. Harry was about to inquire about the statement again when she spoke.

“We knew his time was coming, of course. But we had some vaguely hopeful notions about avoiding it. That’s why we’ve been hiding here, in this horrid place.” She glanced around the dilapidated room briefly. “After what happened to my husband, we didn’t want to take any chances. We left home. We thought we had warded it well. Theodore was always particularly good at wards. I don’t know what happened but… but I went out for groceries… so stupid. I tried calling to him when I came back in, and then again from the kitchen. When there was still no reply, I knew. I just knew. I ran up here and…” She was cut off by a throaty sob, her white face draining of any last vestiges of colour.

Harry’s pen scratches on the notepad were nearly illegible. “How long were you gone?”

“Only twenty minutes,” she breathed. 

He stopped writing, unable to take his eyes off her face. Finally, he said firmly, “It’s not your fault.”

She looked up at him.

“Don’t blame yourself for leaving him.”

She blinked a couple times and her mouth worked as though to say something, but nothing came out. 

Then Robards came back, drawing up beside Harry. “Did you get everything you need?” he asked. 

Harry poised his quill again. “Just a few more questions.”

  
  


+

  
  


The entire office was covered in photographs, maps, and parchment with notes and case details, pinned along three walls. A rolling blackboard was scribbled all over with diagrams and bulleted lists. The entire department was on this case. They hardly had time for anything else. 

Harry unpinned Nott’s photograph from one wall and brought it over to the other side. He placed it underneath the header DECEASED, among the other Death Eaters who’d been found like that. He hadn’t meant to do it, but he realized he had placed his photo right next to his father’s. The elder Nott, part of Voldemort’s inner circle. A chill ran up Harry’s arms. 

He looked back to the POTENTIAL TARGETS wall and his eyes settled on one photograph in particular. He couldn’t stop staring at Malfoy’s face. He often found himself looking at it throughout the day, glancing up at it between paperwork, searching it out randomly. Malfoy’s vivid, silvery eyes glared at him from the photo, his brows drawn together and his pouty lips turned downward.

“You think he’ll be next?”

Harry startled and turned to find Ron standing behind him. 

He cleared his throat and straightened up in his chair, refocusing on the detail report in front on him. “I don’t know,” he said, instead of what he was thinking, which was, “I hope not.” 

There was no reason why he should be more worried about Malfoy than anyone else. And he wasn’t. Malfoy had been a Death Eater just like the rest of them. He was no different than any of the others. The only reason Harry might care is because the murders were grotesque, so obviously he didn’t want Malfoy to suffer the same fate. He didn’t want anyone to suffer such a thing.

“Shall I wait for you to finish that report?” Ron said, nodding at the form on Harry’s desk. 

Harry looked down at it again, his mind swimming. The words wavered on the page, interspersed with the images his mind provided him of blood and frayed skin.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, drawing in a soothing breath. “No,” he said as he exhaled, pushing his chair back and standing up. “I’m coming.” He could scrape together the report tomorrow morning. Robards would be miffed, but Harry could handle him. Right now, he was quite certain the thing he needed most in the world was a good, cold drink. 

The pub was crowded and stuffy, almost claustrophobic, with pipe smoke and body heat sucking out all the air. They spotted Hermione, Ginny, and Luna sitting at a round table in the back, shrouded in shadow, and Harry was glad they had chosen the table furthest from the crowd. 

People tended to glance at them whenever they went out in their trainee uniforms, a fact Harry ignored—he was used to people staring at him, now more than ever—and one that Ron liked to milk sometimes. Ron walked with his back a little straighter and his head a little higher. Harry just wanted his damn drink and bouldered through people to get to the bar. 

Finally, they were sitting down. Harry took four large gulps of his lager, relishing the carbonated burn running down his throat. He blinked through watering eyes. 

“Hard day at work?” Ginny asked. 

Harry nodded. “There’s been another one.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed in concern and Ginny’s eyes widened. Luna didn’t react, but that was not unusual. 

“Theodore Nott,” Harry said.

“Oh, that’s terrible,” said Hermione. “I remember him.”

“I don’t,” Ron said. 

“He was in our year. Hung out with Malfoy a lot.”

Harry’s stomach clenched at the sound of his name. 

“Well,” Ron said, “there you go. I couldn’t be arsed who Malfoy was friends with.”

Luna pinned her big, round eyes on Harry. “They seem to only be targeting former Death Eaters, don’t they?”

That was one of the leading theories in the papers; and the theory the DMLE had latched onto as well. 

“Yes,” Harry said. “They seem to be. Robards doesn’t want to publicly confirm that’s what it is, but it’s obvious at this point and it’s not like people haven’t worked it out for themselves.”

“So that means Malfoy is a target,” she said. 

Harry clenched his teeth. “Yes.” Why did people keep pointing that out to him? He took another long gulp of his drink. 

Just then, there was a deafening _BANG_ , causing Harry to spill lager down the front of his coat. 

_“Fuck_ ,” he said as he sprang to his feet and spun around, instantly alert. He and Ron held their wands in strike position as they surveyed the room. 

“It came from outside,” Ron observed, making strides towards the door. Harry followed him. “DMLE! Make way!” Ron shouted, as per protocol, so that he and Harry could get through the throng of people whose curiosity was starting to sizzle into panic. 

When they finally pushed through the doors into the chill of the autumn air, the source of the loud bang was obvious. A mass Apparition. Harry’s heart jumped into his throat, clogging it up and making it hard to swallow. The sensation of icy water trickled down his arms and legs. 

The crowd in Diagon Alley pushed out of the way, crowding back against buildings and taking cover under awnings. Mothers threw hands over their children’s eyes. The street was deathly silent. 

They stood in the kind of formation a flock of birds took as it soared through the air, and Harry counted quickly in his head: roughly ten or twelve. Their black robes billowed softly in the breeze, their hoods pulled back to expose their masks. 

_Masks_ —what a gruesome way to describe it. 

But it was what they called it. The papers called them everything from the Face Thieves to the Skinners, but, officially, the group referred to themselves as The Masked Knights. They fancied themselves warriors.

Harry didn’t know what the point was. The faces never looked the same after they’d been stretched, drained of blood and with the lips and eyes cut out. Every “mask” looked alike, just a rubbery mass of flesh.

But he could spot Theodore’s face right away, on the leader. The skin was a lot… fresher. Red-rimmed around the edges. 

He wondered who was wearing Theo’s father’s face, and quickly pushed that thought away as he started to feel sick. As difficult as it was, he looked straight into the leader’s eyes. Through the torn holes of Theodore’s flesh, hazel eyes looked back at him. Harry thought the colour resembled vomit green. 

Harry took a step forward. “DMLE,” he shouted. Then, he was supposed to say a whole legal bit which included “stand down” and “surrender your wand”, but who ever had time for that? Honestly, the proper speech took about forty seconds, which was more than enough time for these fuckers to either disappear or to start throwing hexes. 

So Harry threw one first. 

_“Petrificus Totalus!”_

He heard Ron shout, “Harry, no!” but it was too late. In the split second that the spell traveled, Harry felt a euphoric thrill when it appeared that it would hit its target. But, like a dance, the Masked Knights simultaneously swirled their wands and cast a defense charm. It swelled out around them in a sphere, like a shining bubble, deflecting Harry’s hex. The bubbled grew so large it knocked into a row of people who were standing too close. 

Screams erupted from the crowd. Another _bang_ sounded as the knights collectively Disapparated, which only frightened the people more and sent them into a further frenzy. Those who had been hit by the defense charm were still splayed out on the ground, and others were trying to help them.

“Harry!” came Hermione’s voice, and Harry turned around to see she was kneeling down by a woman who was lying on the ground, stiff as a board. Hermione sighed and shook her head at him as she cast, _“Finite Incantatem.”_

Damn it. His spell had bounced off the bubble and had hit that woman. She wasn’t hurt but Harry knew—from experience, he thought sheepishly—there was a lawsuit coming anyway. 

  
  


+

  
  


“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU THINK WAS GOING TO HAPPEN?”

Robards’ spit was flying into his face. Harry blinked and pressed his lips together. “I didn’t…”

“That’s right, you didn’t think! As bloody usual.”

His cheeks grew hot. “For what it’s worth, Ron had nothing to do with it.”

“Oh, I know,” Robards said, pinning Ron with a glare nevertheless. “The entire scene screams _Harry Potter_.”

Harry clenched his jaw and exhaled. “I’m sorr—”

“You should bloody well know by now,” Robards interrupted him, “how these people operate. When they show up in public, all they do is march their arses up and down the street. They want to _intimidate_ ,” he pontificated. “To _scare._ They do not attack civilians.”

“But–”

 _“Not once,_ ” Robards stopped him again, “have they attacked a civilian. That means that today, they were most likely not an immediate threat. Isn’t that right?”

As much as he loathed to admit it, he really couldn’t deny it, either. “Yes,” he muttered. 

“So going off script was probably not the wisest choice. Was it?”

Harry’s face and neck burned. He forced out a stiff, “No.”

“And now we have six people in St Mungos with contact burns from the defense charm, and one woman threatening a civil complaint for being hit by a rogue Petrificus.” Robards’ face resembled a big, red tomato. “So now, you are going to march your arse over to St Mungos and apologise to Mrs Plunkett—and I want _all_ the Chosen Boy charm turned way up. Erase this lawsuit before it starts.”

Harry groaned audibly. 

He was distracted from his misery when a letter flew into the room through the above-door vent, soaring straight into Robards’ hand. He practically shook it open, apparently not pleased in having to pause his scolding of Harry to read it, and he inattentively scanned the parchment. 

Then his eyebrows rose and he read it from the top.

Harry glanced at Ron, who shot him a look of his own. Something had happened. Harry could sense it from the stiffness that assaulted Robards’ body. 

“Change of plans, boys,” Robards said, folding the letter again. “There’s been another incident.”

“What?” Ron exclaimed. “This soon? They’ve never done another one this quickly.”

Harry bit his lip. “They’re escalating.” 

Ron buttoned up the front of his uniform, but Harry didn’t bother. It was late, he was tired. It didn’t occur to him to wonder where they were going until they were at the Apparition point in the Atrium. 

They landed on a street in a nicer part of London. The row of townhouses were ostentatiously wealthy, nicer than the average person might be able to afford. A familiar sense of anxiety curled in his gut, and he tried to swallow it down. He had to be stoic and professional, like Robards. Like Ron, even. 

The further they walked, the more it felt like marching through sludge; the air was thick and almost viscous around them. There were wards—very strong ones. They waded through them, and they became more dense as they climbed the steps of their intended house. At the front door, they were faced with a large brass knocker. Robards did the honours, and Harry and Ron flagged him on either side, shoulders squared. 

“DMLE,” Robards announced. 

He had barely finished when the door swung open. Harry’s heart stopped for the space of a breath when he saw him. Finally, his time had come. Weight-like lead poured through Harry’s limbs. He remained perfectly still, staring into Malfoy’s face. 

He was different from his photograph hanging in the office—slightly older, a bit more refined—but still familiar in an almost painful way, and Harry realised it’d been years since he’d actually laid eyes on him in person. 

Malfoy hardly seemed to register him or Ron, his eyes flickering over them quickly before landing on Robards, seeming to cling to him. Malfoy stepped aside. “Come in,” he said, sharp and urgent. He brought a tumbler of whiskey to his lips and took a long, long drink as they filed past him. Harry immediately felt an oddly instinctual change—how much more like Malfoy it felt once he stepped inside his home, how a whisper of cologne hung in the air as Harry passed inches from him.

Malfoy led them to a sitting room and fell bodily into a grand, winged armchair by the fireplace, which was lit by a meager flame. It didn’t accomplish very much besides throwing odd shadows around the room. Besides the pathetic fire, there was no other light. The curtains were drawn shut in a haphazard manner, like whoever had drawn them had been in a desperate rush. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat next on a tray beside Malfoy’s chair. 

He was visibly shaken, his hair dishevelled, the colour leached from his already pale skin. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone and he wore a plush, velvety robe untied at the waist. 

“What happened?” Harry asked.

Malfoy looked up at him with recognition for the first time. After a moment, he swallowed, his thumb caressing his glass. “I was at work,” he said, his lips downturned into a grimace? 

Malfoy’s work involved importing rare ingredients that he sold to Potions Masters all over England. Harry knew this from his file. His office was in Diagon, at 41 West Lane; he usually got in at 7 am, took long lunch meetings most days at eleven, and finally left work around three; sometimes he went back if a shipment came in, but most of the time he had dinner with importers at a ritzy restaurant called Cauldron. 

“He came in through the front door—the front door, can you believe it?” Malfoy shook his head. “He had his hood pulled up and no one even paid any attention.”

“What did he do?” Harry pressed. 

“I heard him ask for me, and Linda—my secretary—told him I was busy and that she would make an appointment. Then she screamed. So I ran out of my office and went to the lobby. He had pulled his hood off, and his face was… He was wearing one of those… _masks_.” Malfoy’s trembling hand made the ice in his glass rattle, and he stilled it. “I managed to wound him but he got away.”

“What spell did you cast?” Ron asked. 

Malfoy glared at him. “Does it matter?” he snapped.

It’s procedure, Malfoy,” Ron said patiently, but Harry knew him enough to note the exasperation in his tone. 

“Oh.” Malfoy resisted rolling his eyes. “It was Ferveo.”

“That takes a lot Healing work to reverse,” Ron said to Robards. “I’ll check with St Mungo’s if anyone’s come in.”

Robards nodded. “So you’re the next target,” he said to Malfoy, as casually as though he was telling him tomorrow’s weather. “The important thing is you got away. Did anyone follow you here? Who knows where you live?”

Draco scoffed. “I don’t know. It’s probably ridiculously simple to find out someone’s home address. I’ve warded the place up to the neck.”

“We could tell,” Ron said. 

Malfoy pointedly ignored him, addressing Robards. “But I’m leaving immediately, of course.”

“Where are you going?” Harry said. 

“Out of the country.”

Harry shook his head. “They’ve traced people outside of England. It won’t matter if you’re as far as Taiwan.” Malfoy’s lips parted and his eyes shone with quiet panic. “We’ve got safe houses in London, we’ll put you in one. You can still go about your business during the day as long as you only Apparate in and out.”

“That would be the best plan of action,” Robards said. 

Malfoy looked less than pleased. “Fine.”

“Then it’s settled,” Harry said. “I can take you now, if you’ll collect your things.”

Malfoy nodded. “Mimsy!” he shouted into the room. 

A house elf popped in. “Master Draco is calling?”

“Those trunks you’ve packed for me—I need them brought down at once. We will be leaving shortly.”

“Yes, Master Draco.” She inclined her head and Disapparated on the spot. 

“Er...we don’t usually allow for house elves. But you don’t really need one, the safe houses have their own magic that caters to the resident’s needs.”

“I’m not leaving without Mimsy.” Malfoy drained his glass of the remaining whiskey sloshing around at the bottom. 

“She’ll be here when you get back,” Harry said, barely refraining from rolling his eyes. It seemed he had forgotten just how irritatingly difficult Malfoy actually was. 

“I don’t go anywhere without her, so either she comes with me to Europe or she comes with me to your safe house. Either way, she’s coming.”

Ron walked by him and clapped Harry on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, raising his eyebrows in a silent, ‘ _You wanted him, you deal with him now.’_

“Set him up and report back,” Robards said. “I’ll go talk to the secretary.”

Before he knew it, he was left alone with Malfoy and he was starting to rethink his desire to show him to the safe house. He probably should have left the task to Robards. Robards was jaded and old and didn’t give a shit about Malfoy’s needs and wants. But Malfoy was intent on getting his way in everything, down to how many trunks he could bring (protocol said one, but Malfoy brought three) and how many times he was allowed to leave (he managed to convince Harry to allow him to come and go as he pleased; how else was he going to run his business?).

By the time they prepared to Disapparate, Harry was blowing a frustrated sigh and Malfoy was wearing a smug smile. The self-satisfied prick. Harry really should have put his foot down more, as this wasn’t supposed to have been a negotiation. He was the Auror and he was supposed to be laying down the rules.

He held his arm out to Side-Along him, and Malfoy glanced at it for a moment, an odd look in his eyes, before taking him up on it. His fingers gripped Harry’s arm just above the elbow. 

“Will Mimsy be able to follow us?” Harry asked. Malfoy was so close, Harry could count every eyelash. 

Malfoy snorted softly. “Of course she can,” he said, though his voice lacked venom. “Do you not know how house elves work?” 

The longer he stood so close to Malfoy, looked into his face, the harder it became to breathe. Malfoy was probably wearing too much cologne. 

“Let’s go,” Harry said, swallowing. 

“I’m waiting for you, Potter.”

“Right.” He should try to remember the address of the place. Malfoy was so annoying, he’d made him forget.

  
  


+

  
  


The safe house was a flat in a heavily Muggle area of London; there was nothing safer than getting lost in the anonymity of the non-Wizarding world. The flat was small and nondescript, with plain walls and utilitarian IKEA furniture. It contained only the necessities: a square-ish sofa and a low coffee table, a small dining table with two wooden chairs, and a bookshelf with a few ratty paperbacks. A wall of cabinets made up the kitchen, and a teapot sat on the burner. Two doors led to the bedroom and to the loo. It was a temporary place, as impersonal as a hospital room. 

Malfoy’s nose crinkled as soon as he looked around, but also, his shoulders lost a modicum of their tension. The sound of cars rumbled outside, and the honk of a horn. Malfoy walked over to the window and looked out, his eyes darting and nervous, and then he pulled the string to lower the shade. 

The light in the room came on. Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

“I thought this was a Muggle place,” he drawled. 

Harry stood with his hands in his trouser pockets. “There’s electricity and all that. But like I said, the house also has a decent ability to work out what you need.”

“This isn’t a house.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

Malfoy smirked. He seemed to do that a lot when he felt he’d succeeded in aggravating Harry. He was as determined to rub him the wrong way as ever. 

“Are you sure Mimsy can get in?”

“Yes,” Harry said, though the house elf was taking rather long. “It’s probably just taking her ages to wrangle all your damn trunks. Poor thing.”

“And what am I supposed to do about that? There’s no telling how long this’ll be. I need my things. I could very well be here for months!” He wrinkled his nose again. “Though I strongly hope not.”

He was right, of course, and as much as that made Harry want to slap the sneer off his face, it was ultimately why he relented about the trunks. And anyway, if Malfoy needed all his things to be comfortable, there wasn’t really any harm in that. 

Suddenly, there was a loud _bang!_ from outside. 

Both their heads whipped toward the window, Malfoy going ghostly. Harry had his wand out and poised by the time Malfoy fished his own out from his pocket. He moved toward the window and lifted the edge of the shade with his finger, peering out. 

A black car had rear-ended another one and they were both stuck in the middle of the busy street, causing a small traffic jam. One of the drivers got out and slammed his door, shouting things Harry couldn’t hear at the other driver.

Harry was alarmed by how fast his heart was beating, something he had only just registered now that he knew there was no danger. He was breathing so hard, he was almost panting. 

He clenched and unclenched his fist, swallowing down his nerves and attempting to compose himself. “Just a car accident,” he said, though his voice was shakier than he’d like Malfoy to hear. 

Not that Malfoy seemed to notice. He looked rather shaken up, himself. 

Malfoy’s lower lip trembled and he clenched his jaw, stopping it. Then he opened his mouth to say, “Fuck. I thought it was—” He paused, his eyes snapping up to meet Harry’s. 

Neither of them made a sound. 

Finally, Harry moved. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the cold sweat there. “You should make some tea. Try and… you know… relax.”

“I don’t need tea,” Malfoy snapped, striding toward the kitchenette. “I need alcohol.” He flung open the cabinet doors. “Does this bloody place know _that?_ Where is it?”

There was another _pop!_

They both jumped. 

Malfoy exhaled hard. “Mimsy! God damn it.”

“Yes, Master Draco?” said the elf, blinking her round eyes and having no apparent clue what her Apparition did to them. 

“There’s a bottle of whiskey in one of the trunks. I need it now.”

“Yes, sir.” She trotted to the bedroom, swinging the door open as though she’d been there a million times before, and went to the trunks that Harry had seen laid out beside the bed. House elf magic was still foreign to him but he knew they were able to make such deliveries. 

“Actually, I’m glad Mimsy’s here,” Harry said. 

Malfoy leaned back against the counter, his arms crossed in front of him, and eyed Harry sideways. He was still wearing his ridiculously luxurious robe, and it was still untied and hanging off of him. 

“I can take care of myself.”

“Yes but, I’d feel much better if—” If what? Harry stopped himself, feeling his face heat up as Malfoy raised a questioning eyebrow. 

Malfoy was right—he was perfectly capable of defending himself, as well as causing quite a lot of damage if he needed to. He had done it earlier, in fact. 

But it had been a close call. 

“Do you want me to stay the night?” Harry asked. 

It only dawned on him how that sounded when, this time, both of Malfoy’s eyebrows shot up and his lips parted slightly.

“I mean—” Harry cleared his throat. “I could do a security detail. Proper… proper Auror stuff.” 

Bloody hell. 

Malfoy’s lips twitched. “No thank you, Potter.” After a moment he added, “I’ll be okay.” 

Harry gave a curt nod and decided to get the hell out of there before he said anything else ridiculous. 

  
  


+

  
  


As it turned out, that night was an odd one, with fog that clung to the sides of buildings like a starved thing. Harry was hot one minute and cold the next, tossing and turning in his bed and throwing his blanket off, only to scramble for it and wrap himself up again. He must be getting ill. Which was unfortunate, as he couldn’t afford to come down with something at a time like this. 

It was probably just Grimmauld Place, with its old straining pipes and squeaky floorboards that threatened to collapse under the weight of mere dustballs. He also suspected for weeks now that there was a ghoul in the kitchen cupboard, and he’d sent Kreacher to check, just for a laugh, but had said no and gone back to ignoring Harry’s existence. 

Which was why he was extra irritated when he was jerked out of his sleep, heart nearly battering his chest, by the deafening clang of pots and pans. Harry sighed and rubbed his eyes. At first he thought the ghoul might have been playing with them, but when the noise stopped suddenly, he figured it had most likely been Kreacher knocking into them or something. Either way, he was wide awake now; he might as well go check. Maybe grab a glass of water. 

The kitchen floor was cold under his bare feet. The dark felt thicker than usual; he lit a Lumos but its glow barely brushed against the shadowy corners of the cavernous room. 

_“Kreacher_?” he whispered. 

He waited but there was no reply. Moving his wand around, he tried to find the source of the clang. The copper pots and saucepans that usually hung over the long wooden table had fallen on top of it, and some had even rolled onto the floor. There was a barely-concealed cough to the right of him. 

Harry spun around, facing the tall fireplace. His skin prickled. The hearth and most of that side of the room was still steeped in darkness. 

“Kreacher?” he repeated, this time louder. 

When there was still no answer, he frowned. He swore he heard a cough; he was certain of it. 

“Who’s there?” he demanded. 

“Harry—” came a small voice.

Harry’s heart jumped. He didn’t recognize the voice, nor could he see anyone. He took a tiny step closer. “Who is it?”

Had somebody come in through the Floo? He sometimes forgot to lock this one, as the main Floo was upstairs. He cursed himself and lifted his wand higher, aiming into the alcove beside the mantle and the corridor to the stairs. With a jolt, he made out the shape of a person, a grey outline just beyond the fuzzy yellow light. 

“Harry,” said the person again, his voice odd and choked, like he was trying very hard to be quiet, or to disguise it. “It’s me. It’s Draco.”

“What?” Harry breathed. Draco? Here, in Grimmauld Place? Something must have gone wrong; he must have Floo’d straight to him, he must have fled the safe house, he—

No. 

No, it was unlikely. And Draco, he… he would never call him Harry. 

“Draco?” Harry said, playing along. “What happened? Why are you here?”

There was movement, and the grey outline came closer. Not enough so that Harry could see the face, but enough that he could make out a head, shoulders, arms, a torso, legs. He could have been Draco. 

“I need help,” the man said. 

Harry took a long, slow inhale, steadying himself. “Well, I can help you. Just come out here and tell me what happened. Tell me what you need.”

“You’ll help me?” 

This time, there was a ghostly sense of laughter in the man’s choked, guttural voice. It sent a sharp shiver up Harry’s spine.

“Yes,” he said, trying to keep the words firm despite the roiling anger that was building in him. How dare this person pretend to be Draco, and then laugh? What kind of game was he playing at? “Who are you, really?” he asked slowly, part of him not wanting to know. 

“I told you,” the man said, his dark shoulders trembling slightly. Then he shouted, “I’m Draco!” and leapt forward into the light. 

Harry nearly dropped his wand. 

He couldn’t be seeing this. Shock and dismay punched him in the gut; it was nothing short of agony to look at him but he could never, ever tear his eyes away. He was going to throw up. To burst into tears, hot and wet, which already bubbled below the surface, his throat going itchy and tight. 

“NO!”

It was Draco. It was. 

His face. 

Stretched and distorted, chalky and thin. The edges framed with blood so raw and fresh, it seemed to glow red. 

His lips were pulled across the mouth underneath, a horrendous and mocking grin. Even Draco’s eyelids, the round shape of them butchered and hacked at, were still lined with Draco’s precious lashes. But beyond them were those eyes—those vomit-green eyes, shining with mirth. 

Harry woke up screaming. 

The bedsheets all around him were drenched in sweat. He felt like he was swimming in it. It was beginning to cool as he laid there panting, trying to keep from having a heart attack. 

_Fuck_ , that was not a good dream. It had felt so fucking real too, like he was living it. Waking up from that made the stillness of his bedroom, of Grimmauld Place, feel menacing, and he couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d seen. 

Imagined, he reminded himself. He had only imagined it. 

Still, there was no way in hell he could go back to sleep now. Nor could he stay there, with all of that floating around in his head. He got up and packed a small bag. 

In less than twenty minutes, he had Apparated into the safe house. 

And less than two seconds after that, he was hit with a stinging hex, even as the automatic lights flooded the place.

 _“Ah_!” He clutched his elbow and winced. “It’s just me! It’s Harry.”

Mimsy blinked at him, her angry expression melting into one of surprise. “Oh! Harry Potter, sir! Mimsy was thinking you were one of the bad men, sir. Mimsy is very sorry!” She squeaked, clutching the sides of her face. 

“It’s okay, Mimsy, I’m fine.”

The bedroom door slammed open and Malfoy rushed out, clutching his wand, his hair sticking up at random angles. He was wearing a matching set of silk pyjama bottoms and shirt. His feet were covered in plush, quilted green slippers with his initials monogrammed in gold thread. He had never looked so disgustingly wealthy and pompous, or so incredibly good. 

“Malfoy,” Harry exhaled, his heart settling down upon seeing him. 

“What?” he snapped, scowling deeply at Harry, who was more than happy to be the recipient of such annoyance. He was just glad Malfoy’s lips were attached to his face and that he could do things like scowl and snap at him. “Well?” Malfoy looked around, and upon seeing nothing, aimed his glare back at Harry. He lowered his wand. “What is it, Potter? I was fucking sleeping.”

“Go back to sleep.” Harry dropped his bag on the floor next to the sofa, and Malfoy’s eyes landed on it. 

“Did something happen?” He squinted at Harry. “You look horrible.”

“Thanks. And no, don’t worry. It’s nothing.” Harry got onto the sofa, and the flat provided him with a blanket, which appeared neatly folded at his feet. He picked it up and spread it out on top of him. 

“What are you doing?” Malfoy asked, coming closer to the sofa. 

“What does it look like?”

A low growl emitted from Malfoy’s throat. “ _Potter_. I don’t need you here, god damn it, I’ve already told you.”

“Well, that’s just too bad, because I’m staying.” There was no way he was leaving Malfoy alone all night—not after a dream like that. It still sizzled through his veins and made him feel twitchy and on edge. 

“Potter—”

“Were you even asleep anyway?”

The dark circles under Malfoy’s eyes seemed to have worsened since earlier that evening—or yesterday, depending on what time it was now. Harry had no idea, just that it was still dark out. 

Malfoy crossed his arms, his lips turned down into a pout. Harry swallowed as something blistering and hot assaulted his chest and he had to look away from Malfoy’s mouth. 

He turned on his side and fluffed a sofa cushion, which had transformed itself into a white pillow. After he realized Harry was not leaving, Malfoy let out a throaty huff, and Harry heard him turn around and stomp to his room. He expected to hear a door slam too, but to his surprise, there wasn’t any slamming or even shutting. Had Malfoy forgotten to shut it, or had he left it open on purpose? 

He’d obviously forgotten, Harry told himself, irked at his brain for coming up with such stupid thoughts. He stared at the cot in the corner that the flat had provided for Mimsy and tried not to think, although that was impossible with the lingering ghost of the nightmare hounding him. 

A few minutes later, he heard Draco’s soft snores from the other room. 

  
  


+

  
  


When Harry woke up the next morning, it was to the whistling and flittering about of Mimsy as she prepared breakfast in the kitchen. She tried to force some eggs and bacon on Harry, but he refused her offer even though the sizzling bacon smelled tempting. He didn’t have any time to waste seeing as he had woken up late and needed to get to work. 

Before he left, he peeked into the bedroom and saw that Malfoy was still asleep. The mound of his body underneath the blankets and the blond hair that poked out made Harry breathe easier; he was glad Mimsy was going to be with him all day.

He did a subpar tooth brushing charm on his way to the Ministry, followed by a refreshing spell on his body. He wished he’d had time to shower at the safe house, but the meeting was starting in two minutes. He hopped off the lift and ran to the DMLE office, dodging three people in the hallway and nearly knocking into another one. He got to his desk and slid into his seat just in time when, moments later, Robards exited his office. 

“Slept in?” Ron, whose desk faced Harry’s, leaned over and whispered. 

“Long story,” Harry said, hoping he never actually got the chance to tell it. Ron would think he was bonkers if he knew he’d rushed to Malfoy’s side in the middle of the night just because of some stupid nightmare. During the light of day, it did sound a bit hasty. How different everything had felt last night. 

“Updates,” Robards said, without so much as a good morning. “Who has them?” He turned to Ron. “Weasley?”

“I checked with St Mungos to see if anyone had gone in with severe boils,” Ron said, then he snickered. “The idiot actually showed up. Malfoy’s Ferveo hex was good, and he couldn’t heal it on his own.”

A few of the other Aurors chuckled. 

“And you brought him in?” Robards said. 

“Yes.”

“Who was it?”

“Won’t tell us his name and we don’t know him.”

“Of course. Could you find out anything?”

“Unfortunately not. I questioned him with Stan for a bit,” he said, jerking a thumb at the other Auror trainee in their group, “trying to get the name of the leader, but he wouldn’t talk. Not about anything important. He just kept yammering on about how the Masked Knights were doing our jobs for us, clearing out the scum, yadda yadda yadda, all that bollocks.”

There was another soft round of laughter. Ron could get people grinning, at the very least, during even the gravest of topics. 

“The usual, you know. We’ll have to try Veritaserum, I guess.”

“They’ll all have trained themselves to resist it,” said another Auror as Robards nodded. 

“I suspect the same thing,” Robards said. “But we’ll try anyway.” Then he turned to Harry. “Potter! How’s Malfoy?”

Harry froze for a moment, wondering if he was supposed to say, _“How should I know_?” He stared at Robards for a few moments too long and only got out, “Er…”

Robards furrowed his eyebrows, and he could feel the others turning to look at him. Auror Williams even looked up from the crossword section of the _Prophet_ that he not-so-inconspicuously played every morning during these meetings. 

“Is he at the safe house?” Robards prompted.

“Oh! Yes, yes he is. I brought him there last night. I took him to Charter Street,” he clarified, as there was more than one flat in London which they used for such purposes. 

“Good. And this morning? Still alive, I presume?”

“Yes, I checked in on him—” not in the middle of the night, “—on my way here. He’s fine.”

“Very good. I spoke to his secretary last night after the incident and she was still too shaken up to be of much use.” Robards did not sound impressed. “She’s gathering a list of names that Malfoy had appointments with yesterday. Somehow, amid all the panic, she had misplaced her planner.” He sounded even less impressed by that. “My thinking is, how did the perp know for certain he was going to be in? He might have set up an appointment to keep Malfoy in the office during the time he planned to strike.”

There were a few more updates from the other Aurors, but the meeting ended soon after that. Harry volunteered to follow up on some other leads. He wanted to do everything he could to solve this, but not only that, he had to get his mind off Malfoy somehow. 

He spent the entire morning interviewing witnesses who had seen the heavily-robed man walking into Malfoy’s office. They were all convinced that the “evidence” they imparted was going to be of major use to crack the case. Alas, they were all wrong. 

Another piece of bad news was that their suspicions about the robed man were correct: he was trained to resist Veritaserum. Robards and Stanley Stockwell had interrogated him straight through the afternoon, but he hadn’t said one word the entire time. Robards ordered him to Azkaban for the night, hoping a stay in a small cell would wear him down enough that they could try again tomorrow. 

By the time Harry got a break to eat anything, it was four o’clock and the sun was starting to show signs of setting. He wondered where Ron was and thought about asking him to grab a pint and a bite at their usual pub. 

But then the alarm rang. 

There was a blare as if a Howler had gone off, but it was really the safe house alarm flashing red and alerting them to a breach. 

Harry shoved his chair back so fast it nearly toppled. He didn’t even put on his red coat, leaving it tossed over his desk, forgetting everything but the urgent call to _just get to Draco because something was terribly wrong._

Ron and Stanley were on their feet as well but Harry couldn’t wait for them. He Disapparated on the spot. 

As soon as he stopped spinning—though the nausea in his stomach never subsided—he saw blood, and his heart nearly stopped. But then he also saw Malfoy, kneeling next to the tiny body on the floor. 

Harry rushed over to him and grabbed him, taking his face in both hands and wrenching it toward him. He had to see. 

Malfoy was whole. Terrified and pale and in total anguish, but whole. Both his eyes, his nose, his mouth, his chin—they were all in the right place, perfect and gorgeous as ever. Harry could breathe again. And he was fucked, because he couldn’t deny the rush in his chest when he looked at Malfoy, not anymore. Not since his beauty now stood out so sharply in Harry’s eyes. His chest ached with knowing what he couldn’t unknow, and it was both wonderful and devastating. 

Malfoy’s lips parted and he tried to say something but his voice cracked. His eyes swelled with unshed tears. It was only then that Harry looked down.

“Fuck.” 

Harry swallowed hard at the sight of Mimsy’s stiff body. Her throat was slashed open and her blood soaked into the grey carpet.

The sound of popping behind them told him that Ron and Stanley had arrived, as well as the others on the emergency team. “Shit,” Ron said upon witnessing the scene. 

Someone was grabbing Harry’s shoulder to try and pull him away, but Harry turned around with a glare. Stanley took his hands off him and held his palms up, backing away. 

Harry turned back to Malfoy, who had gone back to staring at Mimsy’s body in disbelief. 

“Malfoy,” he said as gently as he could, but it still came out gruff and demanding. 

Malfoy didn’t seem to notice the tightness in his tone; he simply looked back up at Harry, his face in danger of crumbling at any moment.

“What happened?” 

Malfoy’s voice was weak and rough around the edges. “Mimsy… she went out…”

”She left the safe house?”

“She Apparated back just now… I… I think.”

Harry fell to his knees beside him and gripped his elbows, and Malfoy’s hands came up to meet him, grabbing Harry’s arms and locking them together in a parody of an embrace. “Malfoy, look at me. Was she already dead when she appeared back here?”

“Yes,” he breathed. 

Harry clenched his teeth, then said, “Then she didn’t Apparate. She couldn’t have Apparated with her throat slashed. She was sent here.” He lifted Malfoy to his feet. “This was a warning.”

Once Malfoy was standing, he continued to hold him tight by the wrists even as he spoke to Ron.

“They know he’s here—I don’t know how–somehow.”

“We’ll take care of her,” Ron said. “Take him and go.”

Harry was infinitely grateful for Ron in that moment, that he knew what Harry had meant and what Harry needed most: to just get Malfoy out of there as soon as possible.

Without another word, Harry closed his eyes and Disapparated. 

  
  


+

  
  


Grimmauld Place had never looked so good to him. It was safer than a safe house. The fire crackled merrily in the sitting room hearth, as if nothing was wrong with the world at all. 

This time, the nausea of Apparition faded from his stomach moments after they landed. 

“Sit here,” Harry said, walking Malfoy to the sofa and pushing him down onto it. Malfoy did not resist. 

Harry left him there to go into the kitchen and get a glass of water, and when he returned he found Malfoy in the same spot, not having moved an inch. He sat down next to him and handed him the glass. Malfoy took it, but he didn’t drink, he just held it in his hand and stared down into it. 

“Are you…?” Harry had been about to ask Malfoy if he was okay, but realised that was probably really stupid at the moment so he cleared his throat. “You’ll be safe here.”

“Where are we?” Malfoy said into his glass.

“At my house.”

Malfoy’s eyes drifted up toward him, and he looked at Harry slightly sideways. There was something there that was unreadable, and Harry didn’t know if he was going to protest or get angry. Was he going to be a pain in the arse and say something like, ‘That safe house was supposed to be _safe_ , Potter’?

But he simply said, “Okay.”

For some reason, Harry’s heartbeat steadied upon hearing that, but he hadn’t even noticed it had been beating so hard in the first place. 

“I’m sorry about Mimsy,” he said.

Malfoy shook his head. “I can’t believe I made her come with me.”

“Hey,” Harry said. “It’s not your fault.”

Something sharp flashed in Malfoy’s eyes. “Don’t try and make me feel better.”

“Why not?”

“Because I want to be pissed off, okay?”

“Fine.” Harry huffed, crossing his arms and sinking deeper into the sofa. 

Malfoy turned to fully face him, one leg folded underneath him. “Why did you bring me here?”

Harry afixed him with a stare. “Because you were in danger. Obviously.”

“But why _here_?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Your house, Potter.”

Harry’s shoulders tensed. “It was the first place I thought of. Is that alright with you? Or would you have preferred if I just left you there?”

“Do you bring all your _work_ back home with you?”

Harry balked. “You’re not my work, Malfoy. Jesus, what’s your problem?”

“Oh, I’m not? I thought I was a target. My, how wrong I’ve been this whole time.”

“Malfoy…” Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache in the back of his skull. “I don’t know what you’re on about. Look, I know you wanna be pissed off and all, but can you please just not?”

“No.” Malfoy grabbed Harry’s bicep and forced Harry to look at him. And he wouldn’t let go.

What the hell was Malfoy’s problem? He seemed to be picking a fight for no reason at all, and while that certainly shouldn’t have been surprising as this was Malfoy, Harry couldn’t figure out what he wanted from him. 

He was just so angry; it permeated off of him, intense and hot. He was scowling and his eyebrows creased in the middle. His fingers clawed into Harry’s bicep, digging into the muscle. 

Harry reached out to him, intending only to push him away, but as soon as his hand made contact with Malfoy it all went wrong. He was grabbing a fistful of Malfoy’s shirt collar and pulling him closer. It took no effort at all to drag Malfoy toward him—he seemed to leap into Harry’s lap, straddling his legs. 

Malfoy’s arse settling over Harry’s groin sent an instant rush of heat through him, and suddenly everything changed. Now his goal was to get Malfoy as close to him as humanly possible. 

Malfoy’s mouth had somehow found his and they were kissing, messy and open-mouthed. The warmth of Malfoy’s tongue sliding against his own radiated down his arms and his torso, filling him with pure need. From his hands in Harry’s hair to his chest pressing flush against him, Malfoy all but filled his senses. The sweetly intoxicating trace of his cologne suffocated Harry brilliantly, making him almost light-headed. Or maybe that was the blood all rushing south. 

Harry’s hands ran down the line of Malfoy’s back and found his arse, making Malfoy moan as he squeezed it over his trousers. The sound made Harry even harder. He pulled Malfoy’s hips closer, sliding him across the length of his shaft for just that tiniest bit more friction. But he needed more. 

He shoved his face into Malfoy’s neck, kissing and licking and nipping at the delicate, hot skin. Malfoy continued to make the kind of noises that had Harry’s blood boiling. It wasn’t long before Malfoy was undulating his hips, so Harry kept kissing him and eliciting those glorious reactions. Malfoy’s arse rubbing against his cock was the only thing he could think about, and the only thing he wanted. 

Eventual Malfoy reached down and clumsily toyed with Harry’s jeans as he tried to unbutton and unzip them. Harry leaned his head back and breathed, but nothing was unfogging his mind now. It was all Malfoy. Brilliant, brilliant Malfoy, who could figure out how to get them out of their trousers, because that was a brilliant fucking idea. The moment his fingers wrapped around Harry’s bare cock, Harry’s jaw dropped and he emitted a groan of his own. 

After that it was all frantic, hot sliding and slipping as they rubbed against each other. Malfoy held their cocks loosely in one hand, the other wrapped around Harry’s neck to steady himself. Harry clutched Malfoy’s thighs to guide the pace and they rolled their hips together, their cocks sliding together in the sweaty heat of Malfoy’s palm. Malfoy spread their precome between them, intermingling it, making it feel so, so good. 

Somehow Harry found himself with his face back in the crux of Malfoy’s neck and shoulder, and he didn’t mind in the least. He loved breathing him in, especially when the telltale tightness finally reached his balls. 

He worked his hands into the waistband of Malfoy’s trousers, which hung halfway down his arse, past the waistband of his boxers, and he squeezed Malfoy’s cheeks. He was thinking how perfect Malfoy’s arse was when he came, shutting his eyes against the rush of it and breathing Malfoy in one more time. 

Malfoy’s panting became strangled, grunting sounds as he tensed fully in Harry’s arms and reached his own orgasm. Harry only wished he could have seen his face. 

It took a moment before he was ready to let Malfoy go again, but it seemed Malfoy had the same feeling because he clung to Harry tightly. 

Actually, Harry was probably never going to be ready to let Malfoy go, but the thought was new and it scared him. So he gently loosened his grip on Malfoy’s body. His hands were still on Malfoy’s arse, which made his face heat up in a different way, and he attempted to make some space between them. 

Malfoy inhaled deeply and leaned away, slowly sliding off Harry’s lap to fall back onto the sofa. 

  
  


+

  
  


Without talking about it, Harry knew Malfoy would end up in his bed. There was always the guest room, and that was the most obvious place for him to sleep, but he didn’t want Malfoy to go there and he suspected Malfoy didn’t either. 

He wanted Malfoy where he could see him. Where he could touch him. Right there beside him, all night.

Giving Malfoy a pair of his pyjama bottoms and his t-shirt was another small pleasure he never knew existed. Watching Malfoy climb into his bed wearing them almost got his dick hard again. Malfoy didn’t even complain about the Gryffindor emblem, which either meant he was too exhausted to notice or just way past giving a fuck. 

It was probably too early to sleep at merely six pm, but they both passed out almost as soon as their heads hit the pillows. Harry hadn’t even realised how tired he’d been. If he had, he probably would have noticed certain things. Like how he hadn’t heard a peep out of Kreacher—not that this was strictly odd, but it was something to consider. Especially when the Floo came on downstairs in the kitchen. It was too far from the bedrooms to hear, of course. 

But perhaps, since the house was so terribly old and creaky, Harry would wake up when the stairs started to squeak. 


End file.
